


Two-Bed Bedroom (In Stuffy Panama)

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Angry Sex, Incest, M/M, Season/Series 02, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Panama is stuffy, and freedom is muggier than Lincoln had expected. (Season 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two-Bed Bedroom (In Stuffy Panama)

Panama is stuffy.

Michael is sulking — but since he’s a thirty-something man, you’re not supposed to call it ‘sulking’ — and Lincoln is walking a fine line between the relief of being alive and the exhaustion of everything else, and Vee is dead, and Sara’s under arrest hundreds of miles away, and...

Panama is stuffy, and freedom is muggier than Lincoln had expected.

He books a room in a cheap but not-too-shitty hotel on their way to their final destination. Fuck Michael if he doesn’t like it. He’s already sulking anyway.

Two beds. Narrow, barely large enough for him to cram into but, hey, still better than his bunk on death row. Michael eyes the two beds with a squint, then glances at him, then takes a shower and collapses on one of the beds and falls asleep faster than he ever has in his life.

The room is stuffy too. Figures. It’s filled with a heat that the lazy ceiling fan won’t alleviate any time soon, with the smells of the two of them, with whatever is going on in between them and in Michael’s freaky brain.

Lincoln falls asleep because, in the end, exhaustion wins over and knocks him out.

It’s the middle of the night when heavy panting wakes him up. Not any kind of heavy panting. Years in jail — he’s learned to ignore sounds ranging from annoying to scary. _Michael_ ’s heavy panting; the kind that has always awoken Linc.

His brother is a shaking lump between the two beds, rolled up into a tight ball when, really, the heat doesn’t incite you to do such a thing. Lincoln slides down next to him, reaches out for him cautiously. A hand on his shoulder, nothing more. The skin is clammy and burning hot; the sensation against the heel of his hand arouses him; he feels sick to be aroused by this, that way, now.

“Bad dream, Mike?”

Always been prone to those, his baby brother.

Michael looks up and watches him with drowning man’s eyes — liquid and pleading for help and desperate.

“I’m okay,” he croaks.

“Yeah. I can see that.”

This is going to take some time so Lincoln sits more comfortably, his back to Michael’s bed, and waits for the shaking to subside. They’re close, their arms touching, Michael’s pressing a bit into his. Linc hates that he likes it, hates the thoughts, images and sensations the innocent contact stirs up.

“About what happened on the cargo...”

He trails off.

What happened on the cargo ship is that they screwed. For the first time in years. Multiple times during the journey. Michael bent over the small table of their quarters, Michael kneeling on the floor with his chest and face pressed into the thin mattress of his bunk, Michael on his back, Michael straddling Lincoln, Lincoln taking him in his mouth and watching him lose it in the best-worst way... They did it in a variety of ways and positions, with various levels of pleasure as a result, but with a constant: mouths, hands and cocks touching the other one in manners that weren’t at all fraternal. It was messy and not pretty at all, rough and somewhat sickening, but so fucking _good_ that Lincoln gets hard and mushy at the same time from just thinking about it. Home and love after years of nothing and no one.

“It’s not because of what happened on the cargo ship,” Michael whispers, the usual silk still missing from his voice. 

“Still. We don’t have to do it again if you don’t—”

Lincoln shrugs and shuts up. If Michael doesn’t _what_? want it anymore? like it anymore? need it? if he’s fallen in love with someone with whom it’s sane and healthy — normal — to have sex?

“The two beds,” Michael says. “It’s because of that? In case I don’t—”

“No.”

The two beds, it’s because the woman at the front desk could have found it weird that they share a bed; it’s because they need a tiny bit of space; it’s because it’s too damn warm to share a bed. It’s because of a dozen reasons that have nothing to do with the fact of ‘not doing this again’ — even if not doing this ever again would be for the best.

“No,” he says again.

Michael watches him with red-rimmed eyes, then moves so fast that Lincoln can hardly follow what’s happening. He grabs him by the shoulders then by the hips, pulls and pushes, throws and presses, and Lincoln ends up across Michael’s bed, face first into the scratchy and sweaty sheets, his boxer shorts swiftly tugged down.

He lets it happen. He can overpower Michael whenever he wants to — in theory, at least. Michael wouldn’t hurt him anyway, and even if he did, Lincoln wouldn’t mind that much.

Strong hands part his buttocks and expose him without mercy. Michael. Finesse and strength. The strength isn’t the first thing to come into your mind when you see these long fingers of his, but shit, can they grip and hold. And stroke and caress. Linc has a pretty good idea where this is heading, but he breathes out a shocked gasp at the touch of Michael’s tongue on him nonetheless. Soft but unrelenting, dripping with saliva and deliberately lewd. Lincoln moans into the sheets and pushes his ass higher to get _more_ ; he can hear Michael’s grunt of satisfaction.

Fuck the smug little shit — or, actually, the other way around, the way things are going.

Mike’s sure nicer than Linc was on that cargo ship; the second time, anyway, when Lincoln just shoved his cock in and got off on the burn he felt and inflicted.

Linc’s used to having Michael swelling in his hand, rubbing against his stomach, filling his mouth; less so in his ass. He feels bigger, thicker, harder from that end. Linc tries to slow him down a bit, but Michael won’t have any of this tonight. Tonight, Michael is a demanding asshole who moves into him at the pace that works best for him — after a little while, Lincoln finds out it kinda works fantastically for him too. Michael is a controlling little bastard who bats his hand away with a stern, “No,” when Lincoln tries to reach for his own cock. Michael is a fucking jerk who sheathes himself deep and stills just when Lincoln is starting to feel pleasure building at the small of his back.

Michael is the most awesomest brother — and Lincoln just didn’t think ‘brother’ here — when he wraps his hand around Lincoln’s hard-on. Finesse and strength all the way and holy fuck, Michael _knows_ what Linc likes, how he likes it, how to make it even better for him.

The people in the bedroom on the other side of the wall probably hear it all. The whole cliché: the springs squeaking, the headboard banging into the wall, the groans of pleasure, the feet of the bed creaking against the floor because Michael fucks him as if he hated him. Or loved him way, way too much. He’s angry, and right now it doesn’t matter what he’s angry about — The Company screwing them, the Sara fiasco, the fucking aboard the cargo vessel, loving him way, way too much, the two beds in a Panamanian hotel, whatever. Who cares? Michael’s amazing at this when he’s angry, shedding all restraint, _taking_ and intent on breaking down Lincoln with pleasure.

Lincoln twists his upper body, manages to grip a tattooed arm, and tugs on it. He brings Michael’s face close to his to get a kiss. The kiss almost feels like biting, but it’s consistent with Michael’s attitude and sharp thrusts.

Lincoln comes first, ass filled and stretched, Michael’s chest pressed against his back, covered in the sweat dripping and mingling from both of them. He makes a satisfying mess of those damn elegant fingers that have been jerking him off with equal skill and determination.

The air in the bedroom is barely breathable. It climbs another notch as Michael keeps fucking into him, whimpering and frantic now, chasing after something that eludes him. Pleasure, of course, but also release, fulfillment, _relief_. Lincoln hurts at this, body and soul and heart throbbing in unison for his brother.

He moves his hand, takes Michael’s in his own, and squeezes. He couldn’t tell what hurts the most — what feels the best — Michael ramming harsh and fast into him until he spills and slumps forwards, or Michael clutching at his hand for dear life while doing so.

Lincoln barely makes out the words falling from Michael’s lips and grazing his neck.

“Of all the things...” He kisses the skin under Lincoln’s ear, and Lincoln quivers from head to toe. “I’m fine with what happened on the cargo ship.”

He falls asleep within a few seconds, half lying across Lincoln, heavy and damp with sweat and come, breathing slow and steady.

Lincoln doesn’t move. Panama’s stuffier than ever, but he’s been in worst places.

END


End file.
